


A Record of Unusual Occurrences in the Eleventh and Twelfth Months

by Trismegistus (Lebateleur)



Category: Onmyouji | The Yin-Yang Master (Movies)
Genre: Ayakashi, Demons, Heian era, Magic, New Year, Possession, Youkai
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 03:09:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2797385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lebateleur/pseuds/Trismegistus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The purification rites had concluded without incident.  Midnight came, and with it the new year.  All was silent in the capital except for the breeze, which carried the single mournful note of a flute.  Seimei leaned against the pillar of his veranda and looked up at the clear winter sky.  "It seems troublesome things are on their way," he said, and smiled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Record of Unusual Occurrences in the Eleventh and Twelfth Months

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ozsaur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozsaur/gifts).



The final strains of melody faded to silence in the gathering darkness. Hiromasa slowly lowered the flute from his lips. Seimei stood motionless, his hunting robes a ghostly white against the trunk of the cypress. When others at court would have rushed to outdo each other praising the music the moment it ended, hoping to demonstrate the refinement of their sensibilities, Seimei was silent. 

Hiromasa had little use for refinement in anything aside from the women he courted, and preferred the archery yards to ceremony. But somehow his talent for music was better than that of many other courtiers, and he knew by Seimei’s silence that he recognized it.

The bonemeal quarter moon pushed over the edge of the horizon, its light shining faintly on the roofs of the capital below. Hiromasa folded his arms across his chest, though the night was warm for the tenth month. The only sounds were the chirping of the night insects, and finally, the rustling of Seimei’s silks.

“A melody that could guide a soul to the Western Paradise.”

“Strange you should mention that. Tachibana-dono loved the sound of the flute; I believe his tomb is not far from here—“

Comprehension dawned, and he sputtered. “Seimei! You didn’t tell me we’d come to lay an angry spirit to rest.” Tachibana-dono had departed two months past, one of many victims of the latest fever to strike the capital. “Had I only known—“

“You would not have played so beautifully.”

“No, I would have. But I would have played with awareness of the transience of all things, instead of merely the beauty of this night.”

“And that awareness would only have ensnared Tachibana-dono’s wandering spirit further.” Seimei smiled. “Would you begrudge the minister’s soul the chance to attain Buddhahood?”

“That’s not the point, Seimei,” Hiromasa said, hastening down the path behind the diviner’s retreating form. Privately he couldn’t help but wonder what danger Seimei had led him, unquestioning, into, although he did not doubt that Seimei could have led him back out of it too. Tall autumn grasses rustled in the darkness and Hiromasa glanced nervously over his shoulder, telling himself it was nothing but some small nocturnal creature. 

“I told you, you’ve laid the man’s soul to rest. You need not fear him _now_.” Seimei stopped at the head of the path where it began winding its way back down to the Pure Water Temple and the city beyond, hands folded into his long sleeves. The capital spread out across the plain, lantern light gleaming here and there like fireflies.

“And neither need Lady Asagasumi,” said Hiromasa softly. According to rumor, Tachibana-dono’s young mistress had been sorely afflicted over the past several months. Hiromasa had assumed she was indisposed with grief over Tachibana-dono’s passing, but now he suspected otherwise.

“Yes,” said Seimei, a small smile tugging at his lips as it always did when Hiromasa finally noticed the goings on of the supernatural world around him. “The bonds of attraction are not something that can easily be severed. You have surely created great virtue by assisting Tachibana-dono to do so.” He ended mimicking Dharma Master Takuson’s officious tones. Hiromasa cared little for court politics, but even he knew that the cleric, a favorite of the Imperial Presence ever since he’d performed the six syllable sutra at court that summer, sought to eclipse the influence of both the Divination Bureau and the other servants of Lord Buddha within the Inner Palace.

Seimei might mock, but Hiromasa could only sigh at the poignancy of the situation. Although the result was ultimately unfortunate, Tachibana-dono must truly have loved Lady Asagasumi deeply for his soul to persist so obstinately in this world beyond the end of his life. “Yes, I suppose,” he said, and then, catching on to the misdirection, “All the same, Seimei. Next time, tell me what we’re doing. I don’t mind helping, but I don’t like being led somewhere under pretense when I might have to face an unquiet spirit.”

Seimei threw his head back and laughed, eyes long and foxlike in the moonlight. Then he was a fox, dashing away through the grasses as Hiromasa stared mutely after him. He blinked in wonder, and when he opened his eyes he was in his own bedchamber, golden autumn light streaming in through the woven curtains. He could never say afterwards how much had been a dream. He only knew that whatever baleful influence had assailed Lady Asagasumi, it troubled her no more after that night. 

The warm weather held unusually long into the eleventh month, which everyone agreed was remarkable. It became the fashion amongst the courtiers to complain of how these circumstances inconvenienced them; when composing one’s correspondence, for instance, one could hardly liken a lover’s leaving to a departing swallow, when the swallows still darted about the eaves of the palace. 

Nevertheless, Hiromasa was glad for the late summer. He was always busy with some court function or other, and never more so than at the close of the year, which was a continuous blur of ceremonies from the Chrysanthemum Festival until after the New Year. Although skilled poets found the warm weather troublesome, he thought it was far more pleasant to travel about the capital, especially when the signs were so frequently inauspicious and he had to go out of his way to reach his destination, when it wasn’t cold. And anyway, weren’t the warm nights, with dusk falling steadily earlier each day, well suited to courtship?

Hiromasa made his farewells to the other musicians who’d assembled at Oyama-dono’s residence to practice the repertoire for the year-end ceremonies. They had convened after an intolerably long session in attendance at court, in which the Ministers of the Left and Right had politely been at one another’s throats over the promotion of some minor retainer’s nephew to a low-ranking position in the Bureau of Records. Of course, one could not behave egregiously when in the Imperial Presence, but it was all many in the assembly could do to keep from falling asleep where they sat, and their playing today had suffered for it. Everyone was relieved when the music was finally performed satisfactorily and they could call an end to the practice. 

Twilight was already creeping across Oyama-dono’s gardens. The bare branches of the maples and browning flowers filled Hiromasa with melancholy. His thoughts turned to Lady Asagasumi. When, he wondered, with a keen feeling of longing, would the lady finally return his affections? Nothing could be better suited to a clear autumn night than spending it with one’s new lover. It was lamentable that he had not yet managed to do so with her. 

He continued to gaze forlornly at lengthening shadows as he turned the corner of the breezeway, and so did not hear the sound of rushing feet approaching. “Oof,” he said as the servant’s shoulder caught him in the chest, knocking the wind from his lungs. He flailed, trying not to tumble onto the gravel below. The servant pitched forward and caught himself against a balustrade as Hiromasa collapsed backward onto hands and knees. A sharp crack sounded beneath him. 

“Oh,” he said, and slowly raised his forearm. His flute lay on the floor underneath, a long crack running down its length. His eyes met the servant’s, and then they both looked at it in silence as the musicians and several members of Oyama-dono’s household began to gather around them.

“Please forgive my actions!” The servant fell to hands and knees at Hiromasa’s feet. 

“Hiromasa-dono!” exclaimed Oyama-dono, who had pushed his way through the crowd. “This is indeed most unfortunate!”

“My Lord,” the servant exclaimed again. “I have committed a terrible offense! Please forgive me!”

“Ah, I—,” said Hiromasa, rising to his feet. He scratched the back of his neck in embarrassment. The servant remained prostrate before him, apologizing. His voice trembled.

“Hiromasa-dono,” Oyama-dono said again. “There can be no atoning for this unforgivable situation. This useless—.”

“Ah, no, no,” Hiromasa said, waving his hands frantically as he realized what Oyama-dono must think. “Please, do not worry.”

“But that such a priceless instrument has been… How can—“ Shocked murmurs rose from the crowd.

“But that isn’t the case at all. Hafutatsu is safe at my estate.” He had left the precious flute in his garden pavilion to gather dew, hoping its voice would be all the more beautiful when he called upon Lady Asagasumi that evening. “This is only a simple flute, of no value.” Stooping, he swept up the ruined instrument and hid it in the breast of his robes.

Once out of sight, the spell of dismay that had fallen over the onlookers dissipated. The angry flush on Oyama-dono’s face receded, and although his servant yet bowed at Hiromasa’s feet, pleading for forgiveness, he was no longer terrified.

“Please,” Hiromasa said, “There’s no need to trouble over such a trivial matter.” He allowed Oyama-dono to lead him to the eastern gate, both of them eager for him to depart so the unseemly situation could be forgotten as quickly as possible. Hiromasa hoped no one had witnessed him wandering down the corridor with his head in the clouds.

His carriage rumbled down Nodera-koji, the oxen lowing whenever a wheel caught in a rut and his retainers switched them with willow twigs until they pulled it free. Hiromasa longed to reach his residence, where he would quickly exchange his court robes for hunting silks, reclaim Hafutatsu, and then leave to call upon Lady Asagasumi. He felt sure the flute’s melody would be especially beautiful tonight, for all that his playing this afternoon had been lackluster.

At last, the carriage rumbled to a stop. But the weather-beaten walls that greeted Hiromasa as he alit were not those of his own estate, although they were almost as familiar to him. 

“Tadanori,” he said. “Why are we here?” Tadanori was new to Hiromasa’s household, but really, it was surprising for him to have made such a careless mistake. While Hiromasa frequently called here after his official duties were over, today he had clearly stated his wish to return directly to his own residence.

“Hiromasa-sama—“ Tadanori trailed off into silence. He shook himself like a man emerging suddenly from sleep, and gazed at his surroundings in astonishment. “How—” His voice trembled. 

Hiromasa did not wait for a response. He dashed toward Seimei’s gate, which opened soundlessly to admit him. “Seimei!” he cried, hurrying through the gardens to the main wing. The capital must be facing a terrible threat, if there had been no time for Seimei to properly summon him, or even speak to him of whatever danger now menaced it as his cart crossed Ichijo-modori Bridge.

He found Seimei seated behind a low desk in his study. The western awning had been thrown open to let in the last of the evening light. Seimei held a lengthy scroll in his hands, his eyes moving smoothly down its densely written characters.

“Seimei!” he cried again, leaping the stairs to the outer corridor. “What matter troubles the capital? Is the situation grave?”

“Mm,” Seimei agreed, without raising his eyes from the scroll. “The situation is grave indeed.”

Hiromasa swallowed. It was as bad as he had feared. He hurried across the veranda and seated himself on the floor before the desk. “Tell me.”

Seimei placed the scroll on the table, ran his fingers along its edge and spoke a soft command. It whipped shut and Hiromasa recoiled despite himself. Seimei waited calmly as it floated across the room to rest on a narrow shelf against the wall. Only then did he speak.

“An honorable lord has been afflicted by a most grave ailment.”

“Ailment?” You mean…an enchantment?”

“Yes.” Seimei’s voice was low. “He succumbed quickly and deeply, and its effect on him has been extraordinary.”

“Then something must be done immediately!”

“Ah, but that isn’t so easy.” Seimei’s gaze was steady. “For the lord himself is complicit in his own affliction.”

Perhaps the lord had engaged the services of a divination master to remove a rival or gain an influential minister’s ear, and the spell had rebounded on him. Hiromasa had heard of such things occurring. The dreadful circumstances had now taken on an additional air of scandal. Although such enthusiasm was unseemly, he rose to his knees and leaned across the desk toward Seimei, eager to hear more. “He is?”

“Yes. Moreover, the spell is a strong snare he cannot escape. The lord himself knows he is under its influence, but whenever he recalls this matter, its hold on him only strengthens.”

Hiromasa was rapt listening to this astounding tale. “What a truly fearful curse!”

“The lord does not think it so. He is so bewitched he cannot tell left from right. The more he succumbs, the more he believes himself to be free.”

“Then the enchantment is all the more dreadful.” Hiromasa was struck with sympathy for the poor lord’s plight; to be entrapped without even realizing it oneself was a truly lamentable situation. “But Seimei, you must do something; surely _you_ can help him.” He looked at Seimei with shining eyes. This state of affairs was unquestionably dire, but Hiromasa did not doubt for a moment that Seimei was more than equal to the task.

Seimei regarded Hiromasa with a sly tilt of his head. “I already have.” He raised a cup of sake to his lips, his long sleeve obscuring his mouth. Hiromasa did likewise, wondering vaguely when refreshments had replaced the scrolls and amulets on Seimei’s desk. He heard the faint rustle of a woman’s silks retreating down the corridor behind him, though he could have sworn neither Mitsumushi nor Seimei’s shikigami had been in attendance a moment before. 

“But were you successful?”

“Why don’t you ask yourself?

“Ask myself..? This lord, is he here?” Hiromasa half rose and looked behind him, expecting to see the poor man seated forlornly in Seimei’s garden. But no one was there, and all he could hear was the breeze in the grasses and, from beyond the wall, one of his oxen lowing and Tadanori gently soothing it.

“But there’s nobody here aside from—Seimei!” 

Seimei burst into laughter. Hiromasa gulped down a glass of sake to hide his dismay. He set it back on the table with an ungracious thump, and Seimei gestured for him to drink again. Although he knew his cup to be empty, he complied distractedly and choked upon finding it magically refilled. He drained it twice more before Seimei’s laughter came to an end.

“It isn’t kind to make a joke of a person’s difficulties in love,” Hiromasa said at last.

“Ah, but Hiromasa, who is making jokes? All I have done is end your affliction.”

Hiromasa blinked, and cautiously tried thinking of Lady Asagasumi. He found with mingled relief and surprise that he felt as tenderly toward her as ever. “But Seimei,” he said. “My feelings haven’t changed.

“And anyway, they aren’t an affliction and even if they were I don’t want you to remove them,” he amended, looking sternly at Seimei in case he should try to attempt it.

Seimei smiled. “I don’t interfere with such things as love. I have merely broken the enchantment that waylaid you whenever you left your residence.” 

“But I was never under any such enchant—“ Hiromasa began, then broke off in consternation. For it was true that in recent days, unless his presence was required at court, whenever he left his own lodgings he had traveled only to Lady Asagasumi’s residence in the hope that she would finally admit him. He had done so even on days when he had every intention of attending to other business, or visiting the practice yards, or calling on his family. Or on Seimei.

But that was just how matters were when one was in love, wasn’t it? There was nothing magical about it. Or was it a sort of enchantment after all? The harder he tried to puzzle it out the less sure he was that either answer fit. Seimei sat across from him as he struggled, with the air of a man who could read all of Hiromasa’s thoughts as though they’d been written on his face in graceful script.

“Agh!” Hiromasa finally conceded defeat, scratching at the back of his neck.

“Poor Hiromasa,” Seimei sighed, though his tone was more mirthful than sympathetic.

“Poor Hiromasa,” Mitsumushi echoed, drifting over from the garden to refill their glasses. Seimei raised his. “To your release from this troublesome sorcery,” he said. Accustomed to Seimei’s teasing, Hiromasa raised his own glass and drank with good nature. A thought occurred as he placed it back on the table. 

“But Seimei,” he began, pleased at his sudden burst of cleverness. “If I truly was enchanted, you’re to blame for it too.”

Seimei’s eyebrows arched. “Am I?”

“Yes,” said Hiromasa, warming to his idea. He shifted on his cushion and leaned toward Seimei. Lowering his voice conspiratorially, he said, “You see, I was courting Lady Yomena until that night we went to the Eastern Mountains to lay Tachibana-dono to rest. I couldn’t stop thinking of poor Lady Asagasumi. How pitiful for her to lose her lover only to be tormented by him afterward.”

Something flitted across Seimei’s face and was gone.

“For weeks, I kept thinking of her touching situation. I realized then that I must be in love with her,” Hiromasa concluded with a grand flourish, and looked at Seimei expectantly.

But Seimei appeared as unmoved as ever. “But how can you know such a thing, Hiromasa, when you’ve never even spoken to her?”

He bridled at Seimei’s unfeeling words, which were entirely lacking in common sense. “But how else could I know it?” Hiromasa knew he was in love because he knew he was in love. And after all, it wasn’t as though a person could simply walk into a woman’s house and begin conversing with her. 

The unnaturally warm evening felt suddenly uncomfortably so. Seimei drew a folding fan from his robes and waved it languidly in front of his face, scrutinizing Hiromasa over its folds. 

“Say something,” Hiromasa finally urged, growing uncomfortable beneath Seimei’s gaze. 

For a second, he could have sworn Seimei looked unsure of himself. But it must have been a trick of the fading light, because he said without hesitation, “You should forget Lady Asagasumi.”

“Seimei!” Hiromasa exclaimed. He realized belatedly that Seimei must be irritated with him, and that for his part, it had been unseemly to ignore a friend so completely for the sake of a love affair, but really. Seimei often found Hiromasa’s difficulties in courtship amusing, but he had never meddled directly in them before. 

He waited, but Seimei didn’t retract his words. Hiromasa lifted his chin and gazed out at the sunset with resolve. “My feelings for her won’t change, no matter what you say,” he declared.

Seimei raised his eyebrows in an expression Hiromasa knew only too well. He had seen Seimei turn it many times upon members of court who’d begged him for his help only to ignore his advice. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said, then rose and strode into the inner chambers of his residence.

Hiromasa stood dumbfounded for a moment, then stomped back down the garden path and out the gate to his waiting ox cart.

Once home, he began shrugging out of his heavy court robes without waiting for his attendants to help him. He tossed his fan, his _shaku_ , the broken flute, and several pieces of paper unceremoniously onto his writing desk. His servants entered cautiously with downcast eyes, uncertain in the face of their master’s uncustomary ill temper. They dressed him quickly in his sleeping robes and departed. 

Alone in the heavy silence, Hiromasa seated himself at his writing table and composed another poem to Lady Asagasumi, likening his situation to a late bloom hoary with frost, and prepared to retire. But he’d already dismissed his attendants, so there was no one to deliver it to her residence. And he’d forgotten to have them dispose of the flute too. 

He swatted it from the desk in irritation, then immediately regretted his childish actions. It rolled to a stop against the far wall where it lay forlornly, its patina gleaming faintly in the dying light from the coals in the brazier. 

Hiromasa was struck with a poignant sense of fellow feeling for it. It had only been a common, unremarkable flute he’d had occasion to use when Hafutatsu couldn’t be spared, and for that it had ended up broken and useless. He felt similarly.

Embarrassed at his rash actions, he wrapped it in a spare piece of silk and hid it in the back of his writing box so no one could see how poorly he’d behaved. He could discard it when he woke up. When he finally fell asleep, he dreamed of Lady Asagasumi, softly calling his name in the dark. 

The following days were a flurry of activity in preparation for the year-end rites. Hiromasa rushed from one obligation to the next and collapsed into exhausted sleep every night. He had little time to pursue Lady Asagasumi, let alone dwell on Seimei’s unfeeling admonition.

One evening after yet another rehearsal had concluded, this time at Taniguchi-dono’s residence, their host suggested they match poetry while enjoying the winter views of his garden. Hiromasa was as eager as the others to savor the mild weather, but it was unfortunate that Taniguchi-dono hadn’t proposed some other activity. Hiromasa wasn’t skilled at such contests, and this fact was widely known. But everyone agreed that it was an excellent idea and that the losing side would be responsible for refilling the winners’ cups for the remainder of the evening, and teams were quickly chosen. 

The unfortunate situation only worsened when Hiromasa saw that he had been paired against Matsura-dono. _His_ skill was so great it was rumored that a beggar woman passing by his gate one summer evening happened to overhear him as he recited a spontaneous verse of comfort to the fireflies, and was moved to tears at his words. It was later revealed that the beggar had been the spirit of Ono no Komachi. 

Despite the informality of the occasion, Hiromasa didn’t wish to do poorly by his teammates. He couldn’t help but be anxious as his turn drew nearer. He felt he recognized even the most widely-known verses a heartbeat after everyone else, and the selections he thought ingenious, the judges seemed to dislike the most.

When his turn finally came, he gulped and somehow managed to stutter out a verse. It was an obvious choice that would win him no accolades for his sensibilities, but at least it was sufficient. He was so relieved it took a moment before he noticed the others staring in surprise.

Matsura-dono sat across from him, a look of disbelief on his face as his mouth opened and closed without making a sound. A moment later Hiromasa realized that Matsura-dono was unable to recall even one poem in response. Such a thing was unheard of. The round was called for Hiromasa, although he was too amazed by these extraordinary circumstances to enjoy it.

As the next pair began reciting their verses, Matsura-dono hid his mouth with his fan and spoke to one of his servants. The man nodded and ducked out of the west gate. He returned as the third round was being poured for the winners and knelt before Hiromasa. 

“For you, Hiromasa-dono,” said Matsura-dono, and indicated the cloth-wrapped bundle in the servant’s arms. His words were perfectly correct, but there was a twist to his smile. “We may have carried the day, but your astounding victory should be recognized too.” 

Bemused, Hiromasa unwrapped the proffered bundle. The other musicians, who had gathered in closer to see, murmured in appreciation and amusement at the ceremonial scabbard that lay within, its mother of pearl filigree shining in the light. The Imperial Presence had bestowed it upon Matsura-dono during the summer horse races. Matsura-dono’s retainer had only won because the better horseman had somehow fallen from his mount, surprising everyone. Moreover, while Matsura-dono was without question the better poet, he was no match for Hiromasa in the warrior’s arts. Everyone agreed that Matsura-dono’s rejoinder had been very well done.

The night was far advanced by the time Hiromasa returned to his estate, and despite his team’s unfortunate loss, he had still managed to drink plenty. He would rest well tonight, he thought as he collapsed onto his bed. The shadows flickered against his eyelids as he fell asleep. 

He awoke to the hollow tolling of the Divination Bureau drum that marked the start of the tiger hour. The room was bitterly cold; far colder than usual for a winter night. Hiromasa groaned and curled up tightly within the bedding. The lamplight danced against his closed eyes.

There was an eerie quality to its flickering. It was strangely regular, as though something were moving back and forth in front of the brazier.

“…masa.”

He froze, and pulled the quilts more closely about him.

“Hiromasa…” The voice was low, feminine, and dreadful. Hiromasa bit down on the fingers of his fist, trying to choke back the moan that threatened to escape.

“ _Hiromasa…_ ” 

He shuddered beneath the bedclothes, breath coming fast like a hare. A pen rattled and fell to the floor from his writing desk with a clatter.

“Ah!” Hiromasa cried, eyes flying open. Then he yelled again, louder, clutching the quilts about him as though they could protect him from what he saw. She floated several feet away, emaciated, thin as a pole. Silk tassels hung from her disheveled hair. When she turned to face him, her eyes and mouth were empty black holes in her face.

“Hiromasa…”

“Ge—Get away!” he cried, scrambling on hands and knees across the room. 

“Hiromasa…you—“

“Aah,” he cried. The bamboo blinds crashed as he clambered into them. The specter disappeared. 

“Hiromasa-sama!” His servants were crying out in alarm, and a few moments later he heard the sound of their rushing feet approaching down the corridor. “My lord!” Yasunori exclaimed as he thrust the curtains aside. “Are you well?” But Hiromasa could only look up at his head attendant with wide eyes and gasp for breath. 

He made ready to depart at first light, but upon consulting the almanac learned that the day was inauspicious for traveling. Unwilling to invite further ill fortune under such circumstances, he bided his time uneasily in the eastern wing, making sure to stay within earshot of the servants at work in the gardens. Even still, he jumped at every small sound they made and was too unsettled even to pen a letter to Lady Asagasumi.

He feared Lady Yomena had sent her spirit to torment him. How terrible love could be! If only he could call upon Seimei. Hiromasa knew this reluctance was unreasonable. Lady Yomena’s jealousy was indeed terrible, but even so, he knew it would be no match for the divination master. 

Yet Hiromasa still hesitated. Seimei must have known that Lady Yomena would become a vengeful spirit, and had thus warned Hiromasa that evening at his residence. But instead of being grateful for his friend’s advice, Hiromasa was aggrieved. If Seimei had known that such a thing would happen, why hadn’t he done something to prevent Lady Yomena’s fearful transformation from occurring in the first place? Why must Hiromasa abandon his courtship of Lady Asagasumi instead?

No, he would not confide in Seimei. And anyway, weren’t there many other divination masters in the city? Couldn’t he consult just as easily with them? Mindful of the threatening portents, Hiromasa had sent Yasunori and two of his pages to the eastern market with instructions to purchase any amulets capable of misdirecting angry spirits, and waited fitfully in the safety of his residence for their return.

They came back loaded down with silken bundles and slips of paper, and Hiromasa carefully placed the charms about his household and person. He went about his duties that day secure in the knowledge that he was protected from Lady Yomena’s spiteful feelings, but after darkness fell he lay wide awake in bed, ears peeled for the slightest noise. In the end, he didn’t sleep for even a single moment, and so there had been no point in Yasunori’s having gone out for the charms at all.

He spent the following day in a state of bleary exhaustion, and crawled beneath his quilts that night too tired to care whether the amulets were efficacious at all. And yet, the entire night passed without incident and he woke feeling refreshed and certain that the danger had passed. He even penned another 31 syllables to Lady Asagasumi. He handed them to his page with satisfaction, knowing that he could continue his courtship untroubled by his former mistress’s grievance.

His feelings indeed portended a change in fortune, for Lady Asagasumi responded that very night. Her response to the first poem he’d sent those many weeks ago had been correct to the point of discouraging his suit, and her subsequent correspondence in the wake of his perseverance intermittent and noncommittal. But at last he had finally received the longed-for response. 

He dressed in his finest brocade and composed a reply on his most delicately scented paper before setting out to meet her. Even now, she was speaking his name, over and over in the dark. His eyes flew open. His pen had left a groove in his cheek where he’d laid his head down upon it in despair; while the versed he’d penned in his dream had been skillful in its imagery and allusion, he hadn’t been able to put down even a single word in the waking world.

The apparition floated in the air beyond his desk. “Hiromasa,” she breathed, a dreadful sighing hiss. She was wound in a shear sheet like a corpse, and her eyes were empty holes. 

“No,” he gasped.

“Hiromasa…” She pointed at him with a long, thin finger.

“No,” he cried again, more forcefully. He seized the nearest handful of inscribed charms and brandished them at her like a weapon. The chest behind him began to rattle frightfully.

She advanced toward him, still pointing. The chest rocked and clattered furiously as she neared.

“Yasunori,” Hiromasa cried. “Someone!” 

But if a warrior like Hiromasa was alarmed by Lady Yomena’s frightful apparition, his household servants were terrified. Hiromasa heard them mumbling as they woke, and then their cries or shocked silence as they realized that the specter had appeared once more. He could hear them calling for Yasunori or this or that attendant, and whispering frantically from beyond the curtains. But this time, knowing what afflicted Hiromasa, none of them came to his aid. 

His own fear mounting, Hiromasa dove for the gap between two of the heavy curtains, desperate to escape. She breathed his name again, her splinter of a finger pointing unerringly as he dove wildly past her. His shin clipped the edge of his writing desk and he crashed to the floor on hands and knees, crumpled charms flying from his fist to flutter down like leaves. The apparition blinked away.

Hiromasa spent the rest of the night huddled with his attendants about the braziers in the kitchen. 

It was clear that the simple spells available to commoners were no match for Lady Yomena’s astounding jealousy. As soon as the omens permitted, Hiromasa called in person upon a renowned divination master from the provinces. The master received him in the eastern wing of his residence and listened gravely as Hiromasa explained his circumstances. 

“This is a most unfortunate situation. I will have my page ready my horse and accompany you to your residence at once,” he said.

It took a moment for Hiromasa to make sense of his uncouth accent. “No, no,” he said once he had. “That won’t do at all.” He offered a half-hearted explanation that he didn’t want to further frighten his servants, who were leery of divination masters, after the shock of witnessing the apparition’s appearance. In truth, he did not want to be seen in the divination master’s company. Seimei often seemed to know when Hiromasa was in difficult straits, and he had no doubt that Seimei would have already intervened in Hiromasa’s current troubles had he known of them. 

Though Lady Yomena’s vengeful spirit was alarming, Hiromasa felt braver toward her now in the afternoon sunlight. He didn’t want to abandon his courtship of Lady Asagasumi and it would be troublesome should Seimei advise him to do so again, or worse yet, merely smile at him with that knowing look. Chitoku-sama’s assistance might allow him to avoid such unsatisfactory results. After all, many in the capital spoke as highly of Chitoku-sama’s skill as they did Seimei’s. 

But the fact remained that Hiromasa’s unusual friendship with a divination master—to say nothing of one who was not entirely human—had already made him a subject of gossip. If he were overseen returning to his residence accompanied by Chitoku-sama, it would surely be discussed endlessly within the Inner Palace, and then Seimei would certainly hear of it. No, it would be far better for Chitoku-sama to prepare his charms and instruct Hiromasa in their use. Hiromasa would take the necessary measures in his residence, by himself. If all went well, Seimei need never learn of Hiromasa’s difficulties at all.

Chitoku-sama’s disapproval was evident, for all that his courteous manner remained unchanged as Hiromasa insisted that he not investigate the matter directly. The divination master objected that such afflictions were often not what they seemed; moreover, the most efficacious measures could only be undertaken by a skilled practitioner. But Hiromasa was equally courteous and equally firm, and in the end, Chitoku-sama acquiesced.

Hiromasa departed with several elaborately penned amulets, a special incense for scenting his robes, pungent with the tang of wormwood, and a Wisdom King mantra to be chanted prior to moonrise every inauspicious day. Chitoku-sama’s instructions were elaborate, and Hiromasa had fought bitterly against his eagerness to depart as he tried to commit them to memory. It was a long journey to the capital from the divination master’s estate in the western foothills, and the light failed soon this late in the year.

Hiromasa returned home well after nightfall, and followed the instructions he’d received as well as he was able. As he stumbled through the mantra, he added his own fervent wish that Lady Yomena’s spirit be quelled to whatever auspicious entities might be listening. Tomorrow evening, he would play Hafutatsu with the other musicians at the year-end rites in the Inner Palace. He could not afford to spend another night without sleep. 

Chitoku-sama’s spells and Hiromasa’s own sincere efforts proved efficacious. Lady Yomena did not trouble him that night. 

The household was exceptionally lively the next day, with Hiromasa anxiously preparing for the evening’s ceremonies and his servants cleaning and concluding all the other preparations that ushered out the old year. When Hiromasa finally departed for the Inner Palace, wearing his finest court robes with his hair carefully dressed and face smoothly powdered, he was nervous enough about the looming performance that he gave no thought to the fact that Lady Asagasumi, Lady Yomena, and even Seimei would be in attendance too.

In the end, his ensemble played beautifully, and everyone agreed that the unaccompanied music had been more moving than the rival ensemble’s pieces, which featured dancers. Hafutatsu’s voice had been particularly beautiful, even to Hiromasa’s ears. The Imperial Presence had bestowed several bolts of finely woven silk upon them in addition to their yearly allowance, in reward for their outstanding performance. 

Hiromasa retired that night enveloped in a warm glow of wine and satisfaction. The new year had begun in a most auspicious fashion. The Imperial Presence had been pleased with his performance. His residence had been purged of everything old, worn out, or no longer of use. New water had been drawn, a new fire laid in the braziers, and his new clothing and bedding smelled pleasantly of incense, without the underlying scents of sweat and dirt the fabric would accumulate as the new year grew older. Hiromasa closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep to the occasional sounds of drunken revelers making their way back to their estates from the palace.

He awoke to the fearful rattling of furniture. Each crash and clatter was like a hammer blow to his head in his inebriation. He clutched at his temples, and stared at the familiar apparition with eyes that didn’t want to focus. She floated by the desk, endlessly repeating his name in her dreadful wheezing voice. The furniture’s rattling was far more violent, and Lady Yomena’s moaning more urgent, than it had ever been. But Hiromasa was too drunk tonight to be properly fearful of this insistent specter, which refused to heed either Chitoku-sama’s charms or the fact that it was a new year, and cease troubling him. No, he was angry. 

His pulse pounded. Tonight, he would face this troublesome emanation. “Get out,” he whispered. 

Again, she pointed with her sharp, thin finger. 

The chest rattled frightfully and then overbalanced, its contents spilling across the floor. The implicit threat enraged Hiromasa. “Go away!” he cried. Reaching behind him, he fumbled about among his possessions, looking for a weapon. His hand closed upon his scabbard, but when he pulled it free from the tangle of bedding and scrolls and quiver, no sword was there. He was beyond caring.

He rose on quaking legs and brandished the empty sheath at her, crying out in defiance. Her blank black eyes widened. 

“Ahh!” Pain stabbed like a blade between his eyes. He fell to his knees, crying out, and stumbled from the room still clutching the useless scabbard. Gasping for breath, he staggered down the corridor and tripped and tumbled from the veranda, striking his head against an ornamental rock. Blood poured from his forehead onto his robes, his hands, pattered onto dirt and pebbles. Hiromasa hauled himself to his feet and staggered across the garden, collided with the wall of his estate. One bloody hand on the wall and the scabbard clenched tight in the other, he stumbled mindlessly out the gate to the alley. 

He stumbled into someone—noble or servant he couldn’t tell, he could barely force his eyes open—who grunted and shoved him to the ground. “Please,” Hiromasa gasped, grasping at his robes, “you must run. A demon—“

“How dare this clumsy lordling!” the man began angrily, but his companion interrupted. “No, Arataro, stop. Can’t you see he’s one of us?”

The man—Arataro—took Hiromasa by his robes and dragged him to his feet. His head lolled. “Please,” he began again, wiping the blood from his forehead, though more poured into his eyes. “You’re in danger, please, run—“ He realized with horror that they were far from alone, that the alley was full of people. Through his swimming vision he saw men and women in gorgeous brocade, in rough fabric and grass sandals, in the brilliant ochre of priests’ robes. 

He tried to warn them, but doubled over on a fresh wave of pain. Wincing, he grit his teeth and fought it. Through the pain and drunkenness he heard a great many voices raised in excitement and anger. A fresh stab of pain rolled through him. He clutched his forehead, then recoiled in shock. Some…thing, smooth and hard, had burst out of his skull. 

“My, how handsome this young man is,” said a woman in twelve-layered silks, in the elegant court language Hiromasa remembered his lady grandmother speaking to him as a child. He raised his eyes to her, pleading, hoping at least that _she_ would run. In the clouded mirror where her face should have been he saw a horn jutting out from his flesh, black and veined with pearly white like delicate inlay. 

He cried out, flinching from his reflection, from her. “Scabbard-dono isn’t feeling well,” said an old man, the skin of his face and arms and neck grey and wrinkled like old, wadded up cotton. 

“What of it?’” demanded a man with skin like charred leather. “I don’t feel well either. Having been abused in such a way, how could _any_ person feel well?”

“How dare he? How dare he?” someone else was keening, first in sorrow, then in rage. 

Hiromasa moaned and fell to his knees, hands hovering beside that…the thing that…

Someone kicked him. “Hey, Scabbard-dono. Get up.”

“What is this? What’s happening to me?” Hiromasa gasped. Whether from drink or pain or fear, his eyes wouldn’t focus. One moment he saw a crowd of men and women, the next, torn bamboo screens, soiled rags, a broken rake, a pile of rubbish.

A broken cudgel leaned against the earthen wall nearby. He grabbed it and leaned against it, trying to pull himself to his feet. “I can’t…”

Arataro peeled Hiromasa’s fingers from his arm and cast him a look of disgust. “Suit yourself. But if you arrive late to Funaoka, _I_ won’t be held responsible.”

“Now, now,” said a woman, her papery skin glowing eerily, as if from within. “Shouldn’t we take pity on this poor person, when he too has been so lamentably mistreated?” Her appeal roused the sympathy of those nearby: two sets of hands gripped Hiromasa roughly beneath the shoulders and hauled him to his feet. Then they were running.

Faintly, he was aware of many others running with them, laughing and calling to one another in pleasure and enjoyment. It was harder and harder to focus. His head spun and he could hardly string two thoughts together. More fearful still, it was as if he were no longer alone in his own mind. His terror was slowly replaced with rage at having been so ill-used, at having been loved only to be tossed aside. 

Mount Funaoka loomed out of the darkness before them, its wooded slopes black against the starry winter sky. They rounded the base of the mountain, fetching up in a grassy field on its northern slope. Hiromasa fell to his knees, fighting to catch his breath, to ignore the voice in his head demanding that blood be shed. 

Through the buzzing in his ears, he could hear the angry voices of the crowd.

“Isn’t it the case that we have served faithfully for almost a hundred years?” 

“Haven’t we accepted hard use, day and night without complaint, and shown true loyalty to those very people who now sleep comfortably in the capital without thinking once of us?”

“I carved wood and stone year after year. Now my blade is chipped and I have been discarded on the midden heap. Who can argue that I deserved to meet with such misfortune?”

Said a torn kimono. “I will flay my mistress alive and wear her skin as a robe.”

“My treatment has been most reprehensible,” said a bamboo ladle too warped to draw water. “I will snap my former owner’s limbs and watch his blood drain away into the ground.”

Hiromasa tried to beg them to stop, but found himself saying in a cracked and hollow voice. “I was bestowed by the Imperial Presence upon my master, and handed down from son to son like a precious treasure. Now that I’m too brittle to hold a blade I’ve been cast out to a hated enemy like common garbage. I will surely exact vengeance for this mistreatment no matter what!”

The crowd chorused its approval.

“We should return to the capital and feast upon the people, horses, and oxen!” cried a broken down peasant, his round face dark and pitted like an ancient pot.

“I will consume the flesh of my master’s children and grind their bones into face powder!” said his sister. 

“Enough talking,” exclaimed a barrel-chested man, his voice ringing out over the crowd like the East Temple bell. “Let us go immediately to the capital and take our revenge.” 

Murmurs of assent swept through the crowd. If these demons made good on their threats it would surely spell calamity for the capital. Hiromasa had to do something, but if he opened his mouth to protest, how could he prevent the demon within him from once more inciting the crowd? Its pulse—his pulse—raced anew with each cry for vengeance. He tried to resist—he did not want to succumb to it—but it was frightfully angry, and far older and stronger than he. 

The horde churned, then began to flow like a mudslide back toward the capital. Hiromasa struggled to remember who he was, to not go out of his mind with fear. It felt as though his skull was cracking, shattering. The wound around the horn throbbed. Face contorting, he screamed, but the sound was lost in the demons’ angry clamor. 

There was nothing to be done to stop his own transformation, but perhaps he could prevent the capital from falling. One of the last to arrive at Funaoka, he was now at the head of the crowd. A crumpled lacquer cap led the crowd of demons toward the city. Hiromasa threw himself in front of it.

“Stop!” he commanded before he could lose his nerve. Angry voices rose all around him. He could hear them even over the demon, snarling threats, in his own head. Its vengeful spirit would surely overpower him in the end, but if he could trick it first, even for a moment…

“Having taken on new forms, we should celebrate the new year with the choicest food and drink,” he announced. “I was owned by the Imperial Presence and handed down through royal bloodlines for many generations. Let me guide us to the Inner Palace where we can take our pick of the imperial line and the nobility.”

The crowd shouted its assent, and Hiromasa set off toward the capital with the horde swarming behind him. Choking back his terror, he led them toward the Gate of Attaining Wisdom, silently pleading that none would realize his misdirection. The palace lay to their right; the winding route he led them along crept always to the left. And yet the demon revelers followed as he turned them again and again toward the Eastern Mountains, dancing and capering along the way to Ichijo-doori. Throughout the city, dogs barked wildly at this frightful procession, which no human eye could see. 

A young noble was returning home alongside the Horikawa canal. A needle demon plucked him from his carriage like a twig. She devoured him through her long, narrow eye while his retainers screamed in terror. A pair of broken fans set upon them and their screaming ceased.

The procession continued along the western bank with Hiromasa at its head, gasping with fear. His trembling legs barely bore his weight—how could he hope to run when the time came? But he would need to run soon. The earthen walls of Seimei’s estate rose from the darkness on his right. He would charge toward the gate as soon as it was within sight. Surely Seimei’s doors would open for him, even in this abhorrent form. When they did, he would dash inside and, with the last of his strength, he would warn Seimei of the terrible threat facing the capital. Safe within the protection of his walls, Seimei could determine how to oppose this terrible calamity.

Hiromasa knew without doubt that with enough time Seimei could save many of the nobles and commoners in the city. He would assist Seimei however he was able, and when the angry spirit finally overcame him and his transformation into a demon was complete, Seimei could…stop…Hiromasa from causing anyone harm. Hiromasa knew that his own situation was beyond hope, but he could at least do this much, and his trust in Seimei to do the rest was complete.

The sloping eaves of Seimei’s gate swam out of the dark. Hiromasa drew one last, unsteady breath and prepared to run. Something moved in the darkness ahead to his left. A moment later, Seimei stepped out from the shadow of Ichijo-modori Bridge. 

It was too soon. Seimei was outside the protection of his estate; he carried no charms, had no time to trace out any wards on the dusty road, knew nothing of the terrible danger he faced. Hiromasa opened his mouth to warn Seimei, to scream at him to get away, but only the demon’s vengeful words left his mouth. Horrified, Hiromasa watched as Seimei stopped and turned at the sound of his voice. He had failed. He charged toward Seimei with a hundred vengeful demons at his back.

Seimei watched them approach with his hands folded in his sleeves. Then he smiled and raised one hand. His lips moved. He flicked his long, pale fingers. Something small and sharp struck Hiromasa’s horn. “That hurts!” he said, then collapsed face first onto the ground. 

When he opened his eyes he was in Seimei’s bedchamber, clear winter light streaming in through the woven curtains. For a moment, he could not have said how much had been a dream. 

“Ah, Hiromasa-dono,” said Seimei, amusement filling each syllable. “Congratulations on the dawning of the new year.”

Hiromasa’s heart was racing. “What happened? Seimei, the demons, the capital, are they—?”

“Don’t you know it invites bad luck to speak of such inauspicious things on an occasion like the first of the year? Drink some sweet wine and rest. I’ve already sent him your apologies for the indisposition that’s left you unable to attend the festivities at court.”

“Stop referring to the Imperial Presence as ‘him,’” Hiromasa protested, but without any real vehemence. Seimei merely looked at him. He was no longer smiling. 

“Seimei,” Hiromasa tried again after a few unsteady breaths. “Last night—what happened? If the festivities are still being held, then—“

“Yes, all is well,” Seimei finished for him. “All,” he insisted as Hiromasa cautiously raised a hand to his forehead. He flinched as his fingers brushed against angry, swollen skin, but no horn protruded from his skull. 

“But I became a demon.”

“Almost became a demon. And only because you spilled your own blood all over one. What were you thinking? Even a fool would know better than that.”

Hiromasa swallowed, and said nothing. Seimei’s eyes flickered shut and he sighed, heavily, and then continued. “Thankfully, even this fool was smart enough in the end to lead the demon to me.” 

Hiromasa gasped. “But Lady Yomena, I never led her to you. She wasn’t with the…” He trailed off. His head still throbbed and swam, even after all that Seimei must have done to heal him. It made thinking difficult, but he had to make Seimei understand. This calamity had begun with Lady Yomena’s regrettable transformation, and if her aggrieved spirit had not yet been laid to rest, everything could still be in vain. “Lady Yomena—is her spirit at peace? Did you…exorcise…her?”

“Lady Yomena?” Seimei asked. “Her spirit is at peace, certainly, although in the arms of the General of the Right, which hardly requires an exorcism.” He gave Hiromasa a meaning look and tilted his chin toward the back of the room. Hiromasa’s gaze followed to where the lacquered scabbard lay atop a cloth on a low table, bowls of salt and water, white paper streamers, and sakaki branches arrayed around it. 

“This small, insignificant gift is the cause of your difficulties, Hiromasa.” He spoke the standard words of gift-giving mockingly. “It’s true it was a royal gift to the Matsura clan. It’s also true that when a tool or object has been used for one hundred years it receives its own spirit. But if it’s broken or ruined shortly before that, it becomes angry at its misfortune and seeks vengeance upon those who used it. 

“Matsura-dono surely knew this when he gave the scabbard to you, just as he knew it was no longer fit for its intended use.” 

“But why?”

Seimei gave him a sharp look. “Because he wished to court Lady Asagasumi.” 

“But surely,” Hiromasa began. He thought of Seimei’s warning that fall afternoon, and of how Tachibana-dono had died of fever.

“Mm,” Seimei responded, even before Hiromasa could put his confused thoughts into words. 

Hiromasa groaned and pressed his hands to his eyelids. “But then, the vengeful ghost—an angry spirit afflicted me for many nights,” he amended for Seimei’s benefit. “I thought for certain it was Lady Yomena’s jealous spirit, angry because I courted Lady Asagasumi. But now you tell me she had already become the general’s mistress. And if it was Matsura-dono’s gift that turned me into a demon…” 

At last, Seimei smiled, and reached behind him. When he turned back to face Hiromasa he held Hiromasa’s writing box in his hands. Hiromasa stared at it dumbly. Seimei placed it on the floor, opened the lid, and withdrew a small bundle wrapped in silk. It took a moment before Hiromasa recalled what Seimei held so carefully in his hands.

“But that is merely—“

“Nothing but an old flute?” Seimei ran his fingertips gently along the cracked wooden barrel. “In one respect, that is the case. But this humble instrument was also almost one hundred years old when she met with such misfortune.

“Where another would have discarded her, feeling only aggravation that his possession had been ruined, or perhaps concern lest it return to haunt him—“ amusement flashed in Seimei’s eyes—“you clothed her in silk and hid her safely in your writing box, and she was able to avoid being thrown away in the year-end cleaning.

“Because of your compassion, her vengeful spirit was pacified and took pity on you, trying to warn you of the danger you faced from Matsura-dono’s gift.”

They both fell silent for a moment, Hiromasa gazing at the broken instrument that had done its best to protect him, despite his fear and misunderstanding of its intentions. 

“How unfortunate that even though she tried to save me, she will still only be tossed away.”

“Not necessarily,” said Seimei. He leaned against the wall and gestured again at the cup of sweet rice wine by Hiromasa’s bedside. Hiromasa raised it to his lips and drank. Warmth spread through his limbs that could not have been caused by the sake. “Rest. When the moon rises tonight, we’ll give Hatsuyume her due.” 

So the flute has a name too, thought Hiromasa as his eyes fluttered closed. I wonder when Seimei learned it. He slept soundly through the morning and the afternoon, without waking once. When the moon rose, Hiromasa opened his eyes to find Seimei in the center of his garden, the white and red of a priestess’s robes swirling around him as he danced. Hiromasa knew that Hatsuyume would find peace after all, thanks to Seimei’s graceful offering. 

When Seimei finished, he sat down across from Hiromasa and snapped his fingers. The paper streamers on the table twisted and spun in the wind, unfolding to become five beautiful white-robed maidens who smiled demurely as they set out food and sake.

They ate and drank in silence, admiring the clear new year’s sky. “Seimei,” Hiromasa said at last. “They say one throws a bean for each year of one’s life.”

“Is that so?” Seimei murmured.

Hiromasa smiled. “There were many demons last night, you know.”

Now Seimei smiled too. “Hiromasa,” he said in response. He had not bothered to change out of his priestess’s robes, or bind up his hair. “Between Lady Asagasumi and me, who is most beautiful?”

“You,” said Hiromasa simply, without thought or hesitation.

“But how can you know? You’ve never even seen her.”

Once more, Hiromasa was flummoxed by Seimei’s strange question. “I know because I know,” he said finally. Seimei tipped his head back and laughed. Shortly thereafter, Hiromasa joined him.

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Yuletide! Thanks for such a lovely prompt to work from. I never was able to work the kitties in, but all the same, I hope this was as fun for you to read as it was for me to write. ^^


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